REMINISCENCE

VLADIVOSTOK - THE SUMMER/AUTUMN  OF 69: A KILLER’S REMINISCENCE

The submariners and the Petya crew were already on the remote island of Vladivostok. The ‘AK Boat’ crew, eight sets of them, along with the Technical Position personnel were selected some time in 1969 and put through a Russian language course at INS Angre. It was a motley crowd of old and young, thin and fat, but a very lovable lot. So lovable, I must admit, that the pretty, suave daughter of a diplomat who was sent from Delhi to teach us elementary Russian had a rough time deciding who loved her more - eligible bachelors like myself in the queue to date her over a weekend or the semi-married  officers  who  without fail remembered to supply her with her stock of duty-free cigarettes. Looking back, the tensionless atmosphere that existed then certainly cannot be imagined today.

So, after all of three months of basic Russian language, we found ourselves on two Air India Boeings headed for Moscow in the summer of 1969. The three months, of language course, we thought, would equip us with basic conversational skills and take us through on arrival. I need to remind you that this was 1969, when it was a rarity to meet an English speaking Russian even in Moscow, let alone in the remote corner of Vladivostok. But  all  that  our language training did, was to make us gape at the Immigration Officer with utter disbelief and wide open jaws, partly due to the opulence of the airport and partly since we tried to desperately cling to the questions he fired at us like the rounds from a machine gun - they had not a single word that was in our vocabulary! Would you believe it - not one word!! This pattern was to follow us later.

At this stage, I should educate the reader about the kitting up process we went through to meet the winter conditions  of  about  minus 32 degrees.C.   Before   we   left Bombay, we were casually briefed about the rather unfriendly weather we would encounter in Vostok. Communication between those that had preceded us to the Soviet Union and ourselves had somehow ended, of all the places at the NHQ, which strictly observed the principle of sharing information on a `need to know’ basis. Every letter concerning our acquisition was classified Secret and above. If we had become paranoid, the Russians were even more so. How could they trust personnel from a non–aligned country whose foundation for training originated in the West? Most of our senior officers were indeed ex-British Royal Navy trained. Communication on matters of basic necessity was also obfuscated in an environment filled with suspicion!! This was also the time when our navy insulated itself from exercises with other more advanced navies. Consequently, the Indian Navy did not find it necessary to kit people with quality winter clothing items such as service overcoats, leather gloves, smart civilian jackets and more than anything else, good warm under clothing. In this case these items were not required for style but for sheer survival in Vladivostok. Some members of the team had lived in the UK and were somewhat prepared, but even they had not seen conditions anything like this.

So what was the staff solution? Buy clothes from the famous upmarket shops of the Chor Bazar in Mohammad Ali Road. That we managed to pick up some smart looking jackets is another matter. Woolen socks and Parkha with Shapka were borrowed by the naval stores from the Indian Army, which had partly learnt useful lessons after soldiers in shorts and PT shoes were sent to fight the Chinese in 1962. We had to return each piece of borrowed clothing, no matter how soiled it was. The finance section was very particular about such procedures. The then Defence Minister had probably not hit upon the novel idea of sending a couple of our Babus to the North Pole or even Vladivostok!! I may add here that conditions were such that some Russians in Vladivostok may have been happier to travel to the North Pole.

It was thus not surprising to see the most ill-kitted sailors and officers presenting Guards of Honour on Russian soil when smartly attired sailors on the other side stared at us as if an Indian circus had arrived with its famous bag of Indian tricks, for nobody seemed to be collapsing in the 30 knot ice cold wind that would pierce through anything one wore. A miracle indeed!

Anyway, carrying our pots and pans et al, we embarked two large but old commercial planes of the TU vintage to reach Vladivostok, with stern looking Mamas firmly in station in the garb of air hostesses. The gold capped dentures of these Mamas (remember James Bond who was stalked by one such monster) soon dissuaded the adventurous few amongst us from any attempts to communicate. This journey, we were told, would take longer than our inward one to Moscow, with one refueling stop enroute. The Indians, of course, were not cleared to go beyond the tarmac to even shake a leg. Perhaps the Ruskiis had only heard about the Indian inclination towards watering plants with cold impunity in full view of Mother Nature and who cares who else! They did not cater for a highly trained group equipped fully with up-to-date social skills.

We finally arrived at the closed and secret city of Vladivostok. Since administratively it would be convenient to house all Indians together (and keep them out of trouble), we were shepherded to the infamous Ruskii Ostrof (Russian Island). The island was closest to the famous stories one hears about banishment. It had little or no connectivity except in the form of a controlled boat routine allowed by the Base Commander. We arrived much to the joy of our colleagues from the submarine and Petya crew; joy because more faces to share thoughts with, arrival of mail bags after months of wait, new stocks of canteen stores and Indian yummies, even tooth paste, which was in short supply in Russian shops and when rarely available, were found unusable due to the very peculiar taste compared to our own brands. Their joy had another hidden agenda. Being the largest contingent and somewhat top heavy, the AK project could take over the unending and often frustrating battle with the local Russian Commander, whose penchant for depriving Indians of anything that would cost the Soviet Union money was only matched by the uncanny ability of the Indians to come up with new lists of requests each day. Thus began a healthy exchange of words of confrontation that lasted for rest of our stay.

I could write volumes on the events that occurred from the human interest point of view. I was made the Captain’s Secretary and worked directly under Commander Koppikar who was the CSO to K-25. This meant that the two of us worked right through the afternoon when the rest of the detachment was entitled to a siesta. Receiving and sorting out official mail from India, responding to unending questions from our mission in Moscow and distributing the private mail to the huge contingent were some of our tasks. The goodwill I earned from the team in Vladivostok doing all this helped me almost throughout my career.

Many aspects of our life there tickled us pink and gave us the much needed opportunity to bond. A notable one was that the Soviets never lost an opportunity to sell their ideology to us through long speeches and somewhat disguised attempts at brain washing. We in turn resisted their attempts through counter propaganda and sometimes through open resistance that bordered on contempt. This was a regular feature and rarely a day went by without a note of caution from the Base Commander to rein in some of our officers - not just young ones as you might imagine, but some very senior ones too. There was a threat of withdrawal from the course and immediate repatriation to India.

It was under these circumstances that the following episode took place.

Liberty ashore to the city was limited to weekends and the last boat was the only way to return to the Island. Some exceptions were made on happy occasions such as commissioning ceremonies of Petyas, etc. So it was that a rather inebriated tall and handsome Indian young Sub Lieutenant missed the last boat on a cold night when winter was about to set in. Just as well, as there would have been no story to tell had it been a wintry night! Having made valiant attempts to communicate with all and sundry with his rather limited vocabulary of the Russian language, he took upon himself the onerous task of waking up the local Commander who lived in a rather comfortable appointment house in the city. This step, needless to say, was not a recommended one even in India, let alone in the rigid and highly insulated hierarchical set up in the erstwhile Soviet Union. But no one could have restrained this determined young officer, whose sheer size could easily discourage the average Indian from taking him on. Without the dose of vodka in him you may not have met a kinder soul. The magic potion, though, made him verbose and valiant. So when the sleepy Commander stepped out into the chilly night, he encountered the chillier sight of a young Indian officer demanding a boat right then to take him to the Island. All this needed an interpreter since our man broke into some unparliamentary English epithets accompanied by equally unparliamentary gestures. Not all of what he said to the Commander was interpreted, as most words were beyond the comprehension of even the interpreter, who had not perhaps lived in some parts of London, especially the garrulous pubs. During this very nasty diplomatic exchange of words, our man decided after careful consideration, to use the word, `bull shit’. The perplexed Commander asked his interpreter what this new word meant. The equally perplexed interpreter in turn asked our man to explain in simple Russian the possible meaning of the word.  Now, this was the most challenging task that the Sub Lieutenant had been assigned since his arrival in Russia. After much thinking, he tried to figure out the synonym for the word `bull’. Since he knew the word `moloko’, for a commodity he consumed every morning, i.e. milk, he made gestures of milking a cow. This brought instant reaction from the Russians. Now he had to go to the word `bull’. He devised the most innovative combination of words in Russian that meant `the husband of the cow (moosh korova)., There was a spontaneous outburst by the Russians, “Bull, bull, da da”. After a brief silence, the Commander wanted to know the meaning of the next word. In turn, the hapless interpreter looked at our man. The vodka finally having got the better of him, our young, dashing, sub lt turned, showed his posterior to the Commander... and we are not sure what transpired thereafter. Some say he dropped his pants and accompanied it with some weird sounds that resembled minor explosions, and others say he merely gesticulated in a rather inelegant manner. Whatever it was, it carried home the message instantly. Our man was given a boat along with some unprintable words of advise. The Commander, it is said, did not sleep that night. He was busy scripting the details of the erudite conversation leading, according to him, to the insult to the officer corps of the mighty Soviet Union and, in general, an insult to Mother Russia.

            Damage control measures were put in place by the authorities the next morning while our man, having risen with no memories of the previous night, was tucking in a hearty breakfast. That is perhaps the nicest thing about vodka - no headache, no hangover!!

Eventually two or three officers were identified by the Russians for immediate repatriation. They were given a hero’s send off from Vladivostok by the contingent with slogans such as Bharat Mata ki Jai. That was not all. Within a week, these very officers were returned from Moscow after some deft diplomatic intervention by our mission.  Needless to say, they arrived to a tumultuous welcome at the jetty and with some victory signs thrown at the unhappy Soviets that were present.

Those were happy, carefree and memorable days. In the summer/autumn of ‘ 69.